


See You on the Other Side of the War

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, felixander hamilsmoak, post-apocalyptic gender-bent hamilton-ish AU, that's a thing right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5368331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Modern day post-apocalyptic gender-bent Hamilton*-ish AU, with the occasional allusion to Firefly and/or BSG. Super-simple premise, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	See You on the Other Side of the War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [closer2fine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/closer2fine/gifts).



> NOTES: I don't own Arrow, and I am not even close to worthy of Hamilton, but here we are anyway. This is my 100th work posted to AO3, so -- go big or go home, right?
> 
> THANKS: Huge thanks to closer2fine, fanmommer, and callistawolf for encouraging this insanity, and extra special thanks to darlinginmyway for taking the time to read and reassure me I'm not TOTALLY insane for this. ;)
> 
>  ***A note about Hamilton** : Hamilton is [a Broadway play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAiEVjW-GNA) that both debuted and dropped its [phenomenal cast album](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUSRfoOcUe4avCXPg6tPgdZzu--hBXUYx) in 2015. The play is the story of the American revolution, focused on several prominent Founders (specifically, Alexander Hamilton, George Washington, Aaron Burr, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison, along with their friends and family), told by a gloriously multiracial cast singing and rapping a gloriously modern songbook. The story is complex and also somehow completely relatable -- and in order to make something Arrow-y or Olicity-ish, I had to make it (a) modern day (for gender politics reasons), (b) gender bent (Felicity is Hamilton), (c) post-apocalyptic (to capture the revolutionary ethos), and (d) a story (not a musical). So while there are nods and themes and broad storylines that relate back to Hamilton, you don't need to know or like the play to follow the story. (I hope!)

It’s not _really_ a party.

People don’t throw parties in the middle of a revolution, right? That would be, well, _stupid_. Tactically speaking. 

Felicity has only been working with General Diggle for two-and-a-half weeks, but she’s known for months that the green army is outnumbered and out(wo)manned. Currently, the revolutionaries are holed up in basements and random buildings all across what used to be called Starling. (Felicity refuses to call it The Occupied Northwest, because fuck HIVE.)

So, yeah. Not a party. A dinner to encourage brotherhood and sisterhood and all-kinds-of-hood, she supposes. She’s nervous, because she knows there’ll be a lot of people, and she is painfully aware that her reputation precedes her.

Well, her reputation as an outspoken firebrand, at least. Not her much more closely guarded street cred as Overlord, the premiere hacker of the revolution. That only General Diggle knows for sure. She proved herself to him by explaining that HIVE was using electrical grid anomalies to identify and target probable green army hideouts in the Glades, fixing the issue by hacking her way into the electrical system and, just, changing some monitoring scripts, and then giving him a brief demo of her new comms system run through the wearables nearly everyone has -- they were HIVE-issued, after all, part of the organization’s never-ending attempts to track _everyone_ all the time.

HIVE likes to think it can pinpoint dissonance and revolution before it starts, but Felicity understands what they do not -- all the SIGINT in the world isn’t enough to understand what the people are actually thinking. And it’s definitely not enough to understand what the people are willing to do for their freedom. 

The green army simply proved her theory right. 

Or is trying to prove it right.

Honestly, the green army is in kind of bad way at the moment, but she’s hopeful she can help the General turn that around. 

If she can just get through an evening of small talk and socializing. It’s weird that this thought scares her more than heights and small spaces, right?

Pausing in the dimly lit hallway, one hand on the oversized door handle, she can hear -- well, a lot more noise than she’s expecting for a _not_ -party. When she pushes the heavy steel door open and steps into the basement of the tumbledown old factory, green -- the color of the revolution -- is everywhere. Someone has draped green fabric over as many surfaces as possible. The cloth is of many hues and materials, though mostly it looks like the camouflage that Felicity knows General Diggle scored from the Major General (aka, his wife). 

There are mismatched tables, chairs, stools, and crates strewn about the cavernous space. The small gas and rechargeable LED lanterns lend a muted glow to the faces of the fighters seated haphazardly around the room, but can’t illuminate the upper reaches of the basement. The illusion of darkness above is _almost_ enough to make it feel like they’re outside under the night sky, instead of pent up underground. 

The green army has been trapped underground for _months_ on end, but tonight there’s beer and laughter and general merriment, which is definitely an improvement. Felicity’s only been in the Glades for a couple weeks, but this is by far the largest gathering of the green army she’s seen. _Ever_. Which, she muses, is probably a tactical error? What if HIVE figures out their subterranean hideout (despite the General Diggle-enforced ban on electricity when more than 10 fighters are in any given space) and just, you know, _kills_ them all? 

“Felicity!” greets Sara, appearing unexpectedly at her side, carrying a mismatched set of mugs. She’s wearing all black as usual -- combat boots, slightly raggedy jeans, layered tank tops, and her trademark cropped leather jacket. She is beautiful and fierce, but her smile still radiates affection and joy. “You made it. I thought for sure Dig would keep you too busy.”

“He’s got a status call with his wife,” Felicity explains, glancing at her wearable to check the time. “I set up the connection, but she hadn’t shown yet when I left.”

“Have you actually met Major General Michaels?” Sara asks.

“Nope, I haven’t had the pleasure,” she answers. And considering all she’s heard about Major General Lyla Michaels, Felicity is sure it would either be an absolute pleasure, or an unmitigated disaster. It’s _possible_ that Felicity -- prior to joining up with the green army -- had _occasionally_ helped herself to ARGUS’s resources. All Felicity’s actions were in the service of the same goal -- toppling HIVE -- but she’s not convinced someone who earned the rank of Major General with ARGUS would take too kindly to freelance hackers, regardless of their shared purpose.

Sara pushes the mug full of dark brown liquid into Felicity’s hands. “Here, have some beer.”

Skeptical, Felicity takes what she thinks is a discreet sniff near the mug. It smells... _strong_. “Oh?”

But Sara’s already laughing at her. “Laurel and Nyssa brewed it.”

“Oh,” Felicity says again, hoping she’s managed to keep a straight face. She’s a lightweight, and usually avoids everything but clear liquors mixed liberally with juice.

God, she misses juice. And fresh fruit.

Also, she’s not sure beer brewed in a basement in the middle of a war is something she’ll ever want to experience. But she also doesn’t want to refuse Sara’s kindness, so she cups the mug of beer with both hands and brings it to her lips. The brew is strong and bitter, and Felicity _just_ barely avoids coughing as she swallows down a sip. “Yum,” she adds, her voice raspy, but that just makes Sara laugh harder as she pulls Felicity towards a table.

“Felicity!” Laurel greets, grinning up from her perch on a wildly uncomfortable-looking upside-down wooden crate. Her style is similar to her sister’s, though Laurel’s boots are brown, her jeans a dark navy, and her motorcycle jacket adorned with zippers and buckles. She is ethereal and whip-smart, an intimidating combination. “Sit!” Laurel scootches over about an inch and half and tries to pat the room beside her, but the open space isn’t even as wide as the palm of her hand. “Oh.”

Nyssa, luminous as ever in a slightly torn maroon v-neck and cargo pants, simply slides over on the small bench catty-corner to Laurel, pulls Sara down onto her lap, and watches Felicity expectantly. It takes a moment, but Felicity places her untouched beer on the rough-hewn table and sits beside Nyssa; their shoulders are pressed together, and Sara lifts her legs up, crossing her calves on Felicity’s lap. 

Laurel shifts back to the middle of her crate, which brings her elbow against Felicity’s on the table. 

“Okay,” Felicity says, a little wide-eyed at the warm reception. Sure, Laurel, Sara, and Nyssa had befriended her during her first week in the Glades, but up until now, that has simply meant smiles and some genuine conversation a couple times a day. Felicity, a loner by circumstance since age 13 (and by choice these last few years), doesn’t quite know what to do with overt, intimate friendship. “Hi,” she says, lamely.

Nyssa, who is beauty and grace in a single, muscular, slightly intimidating package, smiles at her. “Hello, Felicity Smoak, Firebrand of the Revolution.” Nyssa is also, Felicity has learned, strangely formal sometimes.

“Oh,” Felicity flushes, “That was just the name of the podcast. I don’t really call _myself_ that.” 

“It is earned,” Nyssa answers, brushing off her protests with a swipe of her hand through the air. 

Some of the people she’s met in the green army hold her podcast against her, assuming her sharp criticisms from the relative comfort of safety of her hidden space up north is attributable to cowardice, and not circumstance. They assume she’s only brave from behind a wall. Some of them use _firebrand_ as a sarcastic epithet for her, a cruel nickname insinuating that she is anything but. Defending herself would reveal her Overlord identity, and that is something she can never do. 

So she keeps to herself, as she always has, and ignores the barbs. But tonight, somehow, Nyssa has turned the word into a compliment, and Felicity is at a loss as to how to process that.

“Is the General going to let you continue?” Laurel wonders. “Propaganda is a useful tool, but now that you’re directly associated with the movement, it could put the green army in danger.”

“Actually,” Felicity starts, measuring her words in a way she never used to when she spoke only for herself, “I’m working on another project for the General.” She’s trying to create a fully encrypted, nearly unbreakable channel of communications for the green army, using the wearables her old boss, Ray Palmer, created once upon a time, and that were perverted by HIVE into an attempt at population control. Most everyone in the green army has disabled or destroyed their wearables, which means she has to reconstitute the electronics for hundreds and hundreds of devices. It’s ambitious, but important -- HIVE has technical resources nearly as good as she is, and they’ve been able to keep a step ahead the past six months. 

In addition to keeping tabs with the wearables, HIVE had cast a wide, data-mining net throughout what was once Starling. Once Felicity had thought to look for a data-mining program, it took her almost three weeks to dig through the layers of code -- code that looked unnerving like her own work. It was good -- tight and logical, not a wasted keystroke. When she figured it out, it all made a sickening sort of sense -- she taught him everything he knows. 

And her ex-boyfriend is very good, but Felicity’s better. 

Besting Cooper? Giving the green army the means to communicate, to strategize? Giving them the freedom to operate, to move against HIVE? It’s why she’s here.

But she can’t say any of that to her new friends, so she simply smiles and takes another sip of beer. And promptly chokes, prompting laughter from Sara and Nyssa. Felicity unwraps the loaf of bread on the table and tears off a chunk. “What about you?” she asks, looking from Laurel to the couple on her other side. “What are you guys working on?”

& & &

Nearly two hours later, Felicity is fading fast. It turns out that a free-wheeling, lively conversation with three other people can be pretty exhausting. For someone more accustomed to monologue-ing into her _Firebrand_ podcast, or explaining her tech-related ideas to non-techy people using a flurry of words and metaphors and tangents, conversations like tonight’s are learning experiences. It’s tiring, but she’s completely enjoyed this time with women that she now considers her friends.

It’s just that -- Felicity doesn’t really know how to _have_ friends, and trying to rein in her rambling tendencies -- particularly after the ill-advised consumption of two mugs of that bitter home-brewed beer -- took a lot of effort. Now she just wants to collapse into bed and sleep until the General wakes her.

Or Curtis, if something happens with the wearables project.

Felicity moves across the room, skirting past tables, chairs, crates, and even some fighters sprawled on the floor. She’s most of the way to the door when she glances to her left and locks gazes with Isabel. She is as stunning and as impeccably put together as always, in fitted pants and a modest blouse, looking as if she’d be just as comfortable in a corporate setting than here among the rag-tag revolutionaries. The beautiful brunette has a peculiar look on her face as she lifts a hand to wave to Felicity.

Isabel is a bit of a puzzle to Felicity. Her past is shrouded in mystery -- and Felicity _hates_ mysteries. But her considerable hacking prowess had turned up very little on Isabel -- just that she’s a young accomplished strategist who offered her services to General Diggle’s predecessor, Walter Steele, more than a year ago. Since joining the green army as some sort of consultant, Isabel has been included in many high-level strategic decisions.

Felicity trusts General Diggle implicitly, but she suspects _someone_ in the high ranks has been turning information over to HIVE. Yes, Cooper’s program scraped data on the revolutionaries, but she put an end to that nearly two months ago. The green army’s luck can’t _possibly_ be as bad as it’s seemed the past six weeks or so -- honestly, the revolution’s precarious state even after HIVE wasn’t getting SIGINT on the green army is what finally drove her from her protected bunker and into the heart of the fight. There _has_ to be something else going on. And while Felicity doesn’t have any good reason to suspect Isabel, she also hasn’t been able to _clear_ Isabel the way she has several other possible turncoats.

So to say her relationship with Isabel is fraught is to undersell reality some. Still, Isabel is a powerful woman among the revolutionary army brass, and Felicity knows tipping her hand would put her in serious danger. And as much as Felicity wants to keep moving, to get back to her coding project, she remembers the General’s concern about fomenting factions within the green army. So she changes directions and moves to join Isabel with a measured smile.

It’s only then that she glances at the people Isabel’s talking to -- a slender man in a maroon shirt, watching her approach with a shy but infectious smile; a tiny brunette woman wearing a cropped top over jeans and a knowing look; and a very tall, broad shouldered man in deep green fatigues, who is probably the most ridiculously handsome person Felicity’s ever seen in real life. 

“Hi,” Felicity manages, but she can feel the heat of a blush on her cheeks.

No matter how uncertain Felicity feels around Isabel, she has to admit the other woman has been flawless in her manners so far. So she’s not surprised when Isabel gestures at her conversational partners and asks, “Felicity, have you met the Queens?”

She shakes her head even as she remembers snippets of stories about the Queens that she’s heard since her arrival. Tragedy and heartache seem to be the uniting themes in their history. Which isn’t that unusual.

War isn’t kind, after all. Felicity knows that as well as most.

“Hi,” the stupidly handsome man says, and his scruff can’t quite hide the fact that he has _dimples_ , too. “I’m Oliver Queen.” 

Felicity blinks, hoping like hell she’s not _actually_ drooling. “If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been _worth_ it,” she muses. And then winces, because, holy crap, she said that out loud, and also-- “I mean-- I don’t mean _you_ , just-- I’ve heard good things about the Queens.” Felicity sighs and adds, “Fighting-wise.”

Something about the twitch of his lips makes Felicity think Oliver is amused, but he only offers a nod and a carefully neutral expression. POW, Felicity remembers. And something about his father sacrificing himself so his son would live -- she wishes she’d paid more attention to the story now, but she’d never expected to meet him. Last Felicity’d heard, Oliver Queen was heading up a squadron up north.

He nods again. “We made it back two days ago.”

“Oh,” Felicity says, frustrated with herself for all the rambling she’s doing. And dinner with her friends had gone _so well_ on that front. “Welcome back,” she adds, then turns to the man beside him. “Hi.”

“Barry,” the affable man offers with a slightly bashful smile. “Allen,” he adds. “Not actually a Queen.” Orphaned as a child, Felicity recalls, feeling the instant sort of empathy of someone who’s suffered similarly. Barry was taken in by the Queens after the death of his foster father, a cop-turned-soldier in the early days of the revolution. So -- an honorary Queen, she supposes.

“And Thea,” the woman adds, her tone sardonic. She’s the youngest, and judging from the expression on her face, the one with the biggest chip on her shoulder. But she holds a hand out to Felicity and attempts to smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“l understand the General has taken you under his wing,” Oliver says, his tone neutral even as his bright blue eyes size her up.

“Well, he’d sure be able to,” Felicity remarks. They all stare back at her, similar baffled expressions in place. “Because his arms? Have you seen his biceps?”

Isabel is watching her quietly, but Thea and Barry are grinning. Oliver simply tilts his head a bit and says, “I haven’t, no.”

“Oh.” Felicity can feel the slow burn in her cheeks. She lifts her hands, holding them like a foot apart. “He’s huge!” 

Oliver presses his lips together and hums, while Thea claps a hand over her mouth. 

Barry touches Felicity’s shoulder. “His arms?” he asks, sounding both amused and also like he feels sorry for her.

“Of course his arms,” Felicity confirms, brow furrowed. “What would you -- _oh_! No. _No_.” She yanks her hands apart, whacking Oliver’s very _solid_ bicep in the process. “Sorry,” she says. “I should just--”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Oliver assures her. “I’m familiar with your,” he pauses briefly, “particular style of speaking.”

“You-- You listened to the podcast?” she asks. “I thought you were in the field?” 

Oliver seems almost... _flustered_ for a moment, shifting his weight and apparently struggling for an answer. Felicity is sure she must be imagining it, but when she glances at Isabel, the other woman has a slightly sour look on her face as she watches Oliver. 

For his part, Oliver huffs a laugh and says, “Your podcast was very popular with the troops. Helped keep morale up.”

She grins at that, genuinely flattered. “That’s nice to hear. Of course, the green army didn’t exactly _win_ much while my podcast was ongoing, so maybe it wasn’t as good for morale as it could’ve been.” Oliver’s expression darkens, and Felicity immediately regrets her thoughtlessness. “Oh, I’m so--”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and despite the shortness of the word, his tone is kind. “We were outnumbered, in the lesser tactical position, and I’m convinced we were betrayed.”

Felicity moves closer without really noticing what she’s doing, her fingers landing on his bicep. “Last week?” she presses, her mind whirling. “You think information got to HIVE about your position that recently?”

Brow furrowed slightly, Oliver turns just enough to face her directly. They’re less than a foot apart, and he holds her gaze as he nods. “We were fine for days,” he explains. “Outnumbered, like I said, and we had some skirmishes, some losses, but we were holding our own. Not ten hours after my check-in with the Glades, we were ambushed.” His jaw clenches with tension, with the memory. “We lost 17 people. _Good_ people. People that deserved better than to be betrayed by someone claiming to be fighting for the common good.”

She can’t do much but nod her assent. She’s a little mesmerized by him -- his passion, his intelligence, his... okay, yes, also his _remarkable_ eyes. “Mmmm,” she manages. 

She realizes in the sudden silence that she and Oliver have drifted close enough to do a quick waltz, and that they’re simply staring at each other while the others watch curiously. With a tiny squeak, she steps back, dropping her hand from Oliver’s arm and scrabbling for something, _anything_ to say to break this strange hold he seems to have on her.

“Is that a wearable?” Barry interjects, sounding intrigued as he looks at the small red band on her wrist. 

Felicity glances reflexively at the wearable. “Yes. It’s next generation, but I’m trying to--” She stops, shakes her head -- what is _wrong_ with her tonight? “Sorry. I’m working on something for the General.”

Barry lights up. “Oh, right, you’re a tech-head. I remember you talking circuitry on one of the early episodes of your podcast.” He’s practically bouncing on his heels in excitement. “I miss technology so much, living down here,” he confesses. 

Felicity nods in sympathy. “I know what you mean. But there’s a lab down here and I’m working with Curtis Holt -- do you know Curtis? No? -- on some upgrades and security for--”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Oliver murmurs as he steps back.

Felicity knows his departure was meant to be unnoticed, unobtrusive, but she is overly aware of him. She doesn’t understand why, but she still turns immediately towards him. He’s watching her, his eyes impossibly intense, his face just stupid handsome. 

He pauses, and gives her an actual smile as he holds out a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Felicity Smoak,” he says, and she can’t help but hear _something_ in his tone. Disappointment? A bit of sadness? She’s not sure what it is, but she feels an answering pang of... _something_ in her chest.

She takes his hand, her palm swallowed by his as he squeezes gently. “Yes,” she agrees. “Very nice.” It must be her imagination that he lets his hand linger in hers. There’s an expression on his face that she doesn’t quite recognize, but then he’s letting go, stepping away, turning to go. “Bye,” she murmurs, too quietly for him to hear. 

When she turns back to Barry, a little of his excitement is gone, even as he gestures towards a quieter corner of the room. “Wanna talk tech for a bit?”

Felicity barely hesitates. “Sounds good,” she agrees. And if she takes on last lingering glance over her shoulder as she follows Barry away, well, no one will ever know.

END

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: [**Please read this post on tumblr**](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/134874338537/i-really-like-you-and-your-fic-but-as-a-black) for a discussion of why this story will remain a simple vignette, and not a multi-chapter more fully exploring the word. Thank you!


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